


Fake Angels

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Heaven, M/M, Texting, spa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh my pet, even if I <i> did </i>manage to get a cell tower in the afterlife, how do you figure I ended up in <i> heaven</i>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fake Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #7: Heaven

_Why did you have to die?_ Sherlock thought begrudgingly, _Couldn't you have just played a magic trick? Like me?_

It had been a week since the detective returned to Baker street. Seven long days. Normally, this wouldn't have been a big deal — he'd listen to his police scanner, scour newspapers, _anything_ for a decent puzzle. 

But after spending two years dismantling Moriarty's web, several challenging games a day at least, civilian life was too plain. There was nothing even _close_ to that level of stimulation. Sherlock didn't even think going back to drugs would fix _this_.

Despite himself, the detective finds his fingers gliding across the virtual keyboard, sending a text to his old nemesis:

 

**Bored. -SH**

 

Suddenly, the phone began to ring. Blinking rapidly, Sherlock tried to clear the illusion his desperate mind was clearly playing: _incoming call_ , _Jim Moriarty._

Answering, Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what he expected. _One of his associates playing a game, no doubt…_ Still, he couldn't help but confirm, "Hello?"

"Aren't you supposed to let the dead lie, Sherly?" There is was: Moriarty's low, dulcet trill. The detective almost yelps in surprise. 

"I think that only applies to the _dead_." The detective couldn't help but smile. Stupidly. So hard, his cheeks hurt, "Faker." 

"Then sue me. Have me arrested. Bring me to _justice_." Jim teases, completely unconcerned, "Or do you like me being on the streets? A _danger_ to others?" 

Ignoring the obvious attempt to goad an affectionate response, Sherlock could hear a harp playing softly in the background, "Where are you, heaven?" 

Laughter erupted over the phone, "Oh my pet, even if I _did_ manage to get a cell tower in the afterlife, how do you figure I ended up in _heaven_?"

"If there is a god, I'm sure it appreciates genius." 

"Mmm, that means we'd be together up there." 

"Heaven, indeed."

"Unfortunately, we're alive. There will be a time and place for our eternity, but in the meantime, why don't you stop by?"

Sherlock can hear a server come by, offering something to Jim off of a plate, _probably silver,_ "It's funny, you abhor the angels, yet apparently they're serving you now."

"If you're referring to the harp and champagne they just brought by, there's a good explanation." 

"Which is?"

"I'm on vacation." Sherlock could hear a smirk crack Moriarty's features, "Trying to relax and all. Being dead is such a chore."

"So you're at a spa, obviously somewhere ritzy."

"Good, good. What else?" 

"Oh… you want me to figure out _where_." It wasn't a question. This was a challenge. 

"Better hurry. Almost done with my bath." There was a loud splash.

With that, the line went dead. _Dropped the phone in the water just so I couldn't get another hint from him. Clever git._ Sherlock grabbed his coat, grumbling as he signaled for a cab, "All I wanted was a distraction…" 

 

* * *

 

Upon arrival, Sherlock was fussed over by attendants who had been told to expect him, _Moriarty doesn't go halfway on anything, does he?_ He thinks as he's wrestled into a crisp white bathrobe. 

He's then escorted to the penthouse suite, halls smelling faintly of roses. Entering, Sherlock is accosted by the stark reflecting light of the room: white carpets, white tiles, white walls, white curtains, white furniture, white _everything_.

There's a brief reprieve at the sight of recently washed black hair, "Hello, honey." Jim singsongs, sitting on the sofa in his own white robe, almost completely camouflaged, "What do you think of my retirement?" 

"It's a bit… _bright_." Sherlock winces, shading his eyes.

"Yes, I know… I've asked them to do something about it, but if I were to shift my criminal weight around over _tile colors_ , people might talk." 

"People do little else." They smile. 

After indulging in a bit of champagne, they're both lounging on the couch, watching a fluffy movie of no real consequence. 

Finally, Sherlock asks the question pressing on his mind, "Are you really _retired_?"

"For now. Why? Miss me?" Jim rests his head on the detective's shoulder.

"Entirely too much."

"Well. I'll be right here." Jim reaches across his lap and brings the detective's hand to his lips, kissing it lightly, "You're welcome to stay as long as you need." 

_Even heaven couldn't offer me_ that _much, Jim._


End file.
